


Magic Hour

by ReaderJane



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaderJane/pseuds/ReaderJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy and Spike under the Christmas tree</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic Hour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the December 2011 Spuffy Advent prompt, Pantomime - Fairy Godmother.  
> Timeline: post-series, post-reunion  
> Disclaimer: still not mine, alas

Buffy sighed happily, watching the logs in the fireplace as the flames danced over them. She made Spike stay on the far side in case of sparks. When Dawn used the fireplace she liked to toss in pinecones just to hear them pop. Buffy wasn't about to allow pinecone-roasting near the flammable vampire.

The vampire in question lay behind her, his arms and one leg wrapped over and under her. She knew better than to point out the satisfied rumble coming from his chest. Spike was adamant: vampires neither sparkled nor purred.

Buffy reached out a fingertip and tapped an ornament to set it spinning. The Christmas tree looked different from the underside. She could see all the wires stringing the lights together, as well as the anatomically-correct donkey that Dawn kept sneaking onto the tree each year.

Spike stopped nuzzling her neck long enough to squint up at the tree. "Huh."

"What?" Buffy laced her fingers between his, leaning her head back onto his shoulder.

"Looks different from down here. I haven't seen a Christmas tree from this angle since I was a boy."

"Wow." Buffy mused. "The idea of you as a little boy..."

He chuckled. "Not like I sprang fully-formed from--" he caught the word, Drusilla, before it left his mouth and felt proud of himself for his forethought. Scrambling for another topic, Spike returned to his memories. "Reminds me of my godmother. She used to visit at Christmas."

"A _godmother_ , are you serious? Did she have a wand and sing?"

"Not a fairy godmother, silly bint. A proper godmother who stood up for me when I was christened. Her husband was my godfather, but he died while I was a baby."

"Okay, now I'm trying to imagine baby Spike."

"Well stop, because _William_ was a perfectly ordinary boy for his time. My godparents were friends of my father's. Mother didn't approve of my godmother -- she didn't think ladies ought to travel the world or wear trousers."

"I think I like this godmother of yours."

"You would have loved her. When I was eight, she gave me a crossbow for Christmas."

Buffy gasped. "Did you get to keep it?"

"Mother demanded I give it back, but Pater said, _'If the boy can't handle a bow without shooting his own foot, we had better learn that now.'_ " Spike's accent changed, the workingclass vowels mutating to educated tones like Giles'.

Buffy laughed with delight. She wriggled around to face him. "I think I would have liked your dad, too."

"He would have adored you." He ran a finger down the side of her face, smiling when she turned to nip it. His face sobered. He dropped his eyes.

Buffy prompted gently, "We're going to talk about your mom someday,"

"Someday."

This time she changed the topic. "So what was your godmother's name?"

"Millicent Hart."

Buffy blinked. "This would be -- what, the eighteen-fifties?"

"And -sixties," he agreed. "She died in eighteen sixty-three."

"I've heard that name before." She extricated herself and hurried to the bookshelf where Giles had left a stack of Council journals. Spike watched with appreciation as the firelight played over her naked skin.

Dropping cross-legged beside him, Buffy flipped through the journals rapidly until she came to the passage she'd remembered. "Here it is. Millicent Hart, watcher to two Slayers. Could it be the same person?"

Spike propped himself on his elbow, leaning over to read the volume on her lap. "Can't be." He turned the page, ran his finger down a column of spidery script. "Slayer One killed by a Chirago demon in Argentina, eighteen fifty-nine. Lost with her second Slayer while in Tibet, eighteen sixty-three, cause of death unknown."

Buffy read further. "They only knew the Slayer had died because a Potential got called." Spike curled more tightly around her, mouthing her knee possessively. "The dates line up."

Spike admitted, "It would explain a lot. Her independence, the travel... she didn't visit every Christmas. Father would get letters from Millicent and lock himself in his study." He smiled ruefully. "I believe Mother was a bit jealous." He thought for a moment. "Fifty-nine... I think I remember. She was very quiet, as if she'd been ill. Chiefly what I noticed was that she hadn't brought me a gift that year."

Buffy closed the journals and set them aside.

"'M glad she didn't see what I turned into," he mumbled. "Grew up to be a monster and killed two of her own."

"And saved the world, helped me activate hundreds of Slayers, and closed a Hellmouth." Buffy ran her fingers through his hair. She caught Spike's chin and tipped his face up towards her.

"I think your godmother would be proud of you."

He kissed her hand, breathing in her scent and letting the sound of her pulse lull him. A pop from the fireplace startled them both. Buffy stretched back out beside him. "I'm glad you don't have a fairy godmother," she teased. "I'd hate it if you turned into a pumpkin."

Spike snorted. He pulled her on top of him, kissing her desperately as the clock struck twelve.


End file.
